


Stone

by bccalling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 12, Top Dean, Voyeurism, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8290649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bccalling/pseuds/bccalling
Summary: When they bring Sam home, Mary begins to realize just how close her boys really are.





	

She’s worried, to say the least. 

Both her boys are hurting, she knows. Sam was broken pretty intensely. He’d barely stirred when Dean had gathered him up and sifted them to safety. Had done little more than murmur Dean’s name and press his nose forward into Dean’s neck as his big brother had laid him out in the little twin bed locked away in the room Dean called his own.

And Dean hasn’t so much as stepped foot out of that room for hours.

They’d tucked Sam safely into Dean’s bed as soon as they’d gotten him home, and Dean had set himself up in an uncomfortable chair at its edge and refused to move, no matter her urging.

Honestly, Mary’s not certain how to feel about it. She’s glad that Dean cares so deeply for his little brother–she’d always wanted her sweet boys to be close–but she fears there’s danger in the absolute devotion they share.

Sam’s not in any real danger anymore, she knows. He’s fully stable, and though he’s hurt, they both know he’ll be okay.

And yet Dean refuses to move from his brother’s side, shifting forward every few moments to lay a gentle hand on his brother’s chest to make sure Sam’s still breathing. It scares her that Dean is so utterly incapable of functioning for himself when Sam is hurting. It can’t be healthy, she thinks distantly, her eyes following her oldest as his fingers come to trace the edges of bruised skin that decorate Sam’s hands. Those fingers linger intimately against the open wound on Sam’s palm, and Mary wonders if maybe she’s seeing tears in Dean’s eyes.

It’s odd, she thinks distantly, as her eyes take in the delicate scene before her.

But then, she also recognizes that she doesn’t really know her boys yet. The last time she’d seen them, they were just tiny. And she knows that this is theirs; this space, what they are to one another. It all belongs to the two of them, and she’s an outsider. They love her, she knows, can tell from the brief interactions they’ve shared, but it’s nothing compared to the way they love one another.

And that scares her, just a bit, because it’s already clear that neither one of them would be able to survive without the other.

* * *

 

It’s late when Mary wanders into Dean’s room to check on Sam. And Dean. 

When she slips in to check on her boys, Dean’s no longer watching from the now empty chair. Instead, she finds him curled protectively around Sam in the small bed.

They both look so peaceful there, wrapped around one another, Sam’s legs tucked between Dean’s and Dean’s fingers resting gently on Sam’s bare stomach, just above the dip of Sam’s boxers.

The pose is so intimate that she feels like an intruder, like she’s watching a pair of lovers in their most private moments.

She doesn’t know how she should feel about that. Her mind is telling her she should be disgusted and heartbroken that her sweet boys had to grow up into this. And yet, part of her thrills at the sweetness and intimacy of it. There’s so much love and devotion between them. She can’t help but feel that it’s beautiful, really.

* * *

 

It’s been three days since they brought Sam home. Three days since Dean had curled around his little brother in the too-small twin bed and refused to leave Sam’s side. They’ve barely left that little room for more than the occasional trip to the restroom. Mary’s brought them food, insisted they eat and keep up their strength. Especially Sam. Dean hasn’t so much as showered, she thinks. Too much time away from Sam for him to bear right now. He’s bathed Sam, though. Gentle hands washing away the pain and putting Sam back together again.

Mary had wandered by once, the door cracked open and a clear view of the two of them meeting her eyes. Sam was settled in the tub, his head hanging back and his eyes clenched tight as he breathed through the pain of the soft touch Dean applied to his still fresh wounds. Or at least, that’s what she tried to convince herself as she back away quietly, her mind calling up images of exactly where Dean’s hand might have strayed to cause that pleasure-pain response she’d seen on Sammy’s face.

She wants to be angry, wants to hate the depravity of it all. But she doesn’t and she can’t.

Because there’s something beautiful behind it. Something soft and sweet and timeless. And these boys–these men–are the little children she cradled and loved and wanted the absolute best of everything for. She wasn’t able to give them that.

But she was able to give them one another. And there’s something deeply beautiful and soothing about that, if she’s being honest with herself.

* * *

 

Later, she finds them wrapped together on that tiny bed once again, Dean holding Sam against his chest as they breathe together, Dean’s fingers playing gentle with the soft broken skin on Sam’s palm. She stands just outside the door. Feels like she’s intruding, but can’t bring herself to walk away.

She sees Sam smile, gentle as he raises his eyes from their fingers to Dean’s face.

“You stink,” he tells Dean, matter-of-fact, with hint of playfulness coloring his tone as Dean chuckles and pulls Sam closer. For his part, Sam buries his nose further into Dean’s neck, as he smiles big and presses a kiss there.

There’s so much adoration in the way they interact. The gentle touches and brotherly banter and the comfort they inject into their every interaction. 

Dean’s fingers shift up into Sam’s hair, as he smiles soft. 

“Hey, Sammy,” he murmurs gently, casting his eyes over to meet his little brother’s. “Do you remember when you were little, and we used to sleep like this every night?” 

Sam gives a fond little nod at that. For a moment, Mary feels like she can read the memories in Sam’s eyes.

“You know,” Dean starts, soft and a little shaky. “I used to think it was for you. To protect you, make you feel safe. But I think maybe it was actually for me. I’ve never known how to be without you Sam. Always felt like every time you were out of my arms that I’d wake and you’d be gone. And then, when you were--when she took you. God, Sam, I was so fucking scared.”

There are tears gathering in Dean’s eyes, the glassy sheen of them reflecting back the adoration he feels for his little brother.

Sam’s fingers lift to play along the cut of Dean’s jaw, shifting his brother’s eyes to his own. “You saved me,” he whispers, soft and gentle as he tries to will Dean to understand that they’re here and they’re whole and they’re safe. “You saved me, Dean.”

With teary eyes, Dean nods, taking in a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy. I’m just--I’m glad you’re okay.”

Dean’s still struggling, she can see, his guilt overtaking him, even though he has nothing to feel guilty for. She wishes she could take that away, make him understand.

But she doesn’t have to. 

Because Sam’s there. 

She watches, transfixed, as Sam’s fingers draw Dean to meet him, Sam’s lips brushing softly against Dean’s in a kiss she’s not sure can even rightly be called a kiss, it’s so gentle, barely a whisper.

She wonders for a moment if this is a first for them.

* * *

 

A few days later, Sam's a little bit stronger, and Dean's slowly starting to venture out of the little room he and Sam have been occupying constantly since they brought her youngest home. He's in the kitchen when she finds him, making a peanut butter and banana sandwich she's learned to recognize as a favorite comfort food of Sammy's. It's the first time they've really had a chance to talk, and Mary needs to ask. She's not sure she wants to know the answer, but she has to ask.

And so she does.

“Dean," she ventures quietly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, "can we talk?"

She sees his eyes shift to the arch of the door, a touch of worry wrinkling his brow. "Sam..." he starts softly, the argument clear as he watches her.

“It'll just take a minute, Dean," she reassures him with a little smile. "I won't keep you long. You'll be back with Sammy in no time."

He sighs in frustration, and she sees the reluctance there, but he follows her lead and takes a seat across from her when she settles herself at the table.

For a moment, she doesn't know how to start. How do ask your son if he's intimate with his little brother?

But Dean’s on the edge of his seat, restless to get back to Sammy, and she has to know.

So she asks. 

"Honey," she tries to keep her voice level, reassuring, "how long have you and Sam been,” she pauses and draws a careful breath, searching for the appropriate words, “more than brothers?”

Dean tenses, silent.

She reaches out a hand to blanket Dean's. "I'm not judging," she tells him carefully, "I couldn't begin to understand what the two of you have been through together, and I won't judge you for this, but I just--I feel like I need to know. So please just--please."

For a long moment, Dean stares her down. She thinks for a moment that he's going to refuse the question, walk away and pretend the exchange never happened. But then his shoulders sag in defeat and he casts his eyes down to his hands.

"A while." He admits, so quiet she can barely hear. "For as long as I can remember, really, we've been more. We've never--I mean, it's never been physical. At least not until these last few days. And even then, we haven't--not really. We just--" he takes a deep, shaky breath, and Mary thinks she sees tears glimmering in his eyes, "I love him, mom. He's everything, always has been, and when we almost lost one another again, it was too much. We can't _not_ be this anymore. I need him, he needs me, and we need _this_. As messed up as that is, I just can't not be with him."

He's scared, Mary knows. Afraid she's about to up and run and abandon them, never come back. But that's not something she could ever do, so she squeezes Dean's hand in reassurance.

"It's okay, sweetie," she whispers, with a little smile, "I can't pretend this is entirely normal, but I want you both happy, and I see how you are together. I'm not going to leave and I'm not going to try to stop you, just--" she sighs a little, worry evident in her tone, "just make sure you both know what you really want before you take this any further, okay?"

Dean smiles a little, and there might be sadness behind it. She doesn't think he believes her. But she won't go back on this promise, and she'll prove to him she means it.

* * *

 

And then there's the night she wakes to the sound of Sam's pained shout from down the hall. 

It takes her no time at all to pull herself out of bed and bolt down to Dean's door, motherly instinct kicking in instantly, even though Sammy's not her little boy anymore; he's fully grown and she barely knows him, but she knows he once was that tiny little baby she'd cradled in her arms, and that knowledge is enough for her unconscious to respond before she can process what’s happening. 

She knows Dean's there; that Dean will protect her youngest at all costs.

But she's not going to ignore her broken son, so she rushes closer to the cracked door.

It hits her all at once; the image of the two of them locked together there in the room that's become _theirs_.

It wasn't pain, she discovers. It wasn't pain at all.

It should be wrong, she knows; these two beautiful boys she had brought into the world shouldn’t also be lovers. But her boys were made for each other. She can see it in the slow, steady shift of their hips as they rock together, eyes locked and fingers entangled. Sam’s pleasure is clear in the movement of his body and the little breaths that catch in his throat and force his eyes to roll back. The sheet that covers them slips away as the fingers of Sam’s free hand drift to the curve of Dean’s back, shifting down until he finds the firm globes of Dean’s ass and squeezes, urging his brother on and digging crescent shaped bruises in the wake of his fingernails. For his part, Dean pushes forward a little harder, a little more desperate, but she can see he’s holding back, worried that Sam might still be too fragile for this. He presses his face into the crook of Sam’s neck, mouthing at the skin there as he whispers, breathless, "Don’t wanna hurt you, Sammy.”

“Doesn’t hurt, Dean,” Sam murmurs, voice shallow and ragged, “feels good. So good. Come here.”

Sam’s hips shift up, pulling his knees forward to wrap loosely around Dean, and it’s enough to urge Dean’s lips up to meet Sam’s. They kiss, soft and gentle and so very sweet, until the pleasure takes them over and their mouths go slack. They stay close, lips the smallest breath apart as they breathe through their pleasure.

They’re all sharp edges and whispered love.

And Mary knows, she _knows_ she shouldn’t watch this. Shouldn’t be okay with this.

But something in her also knows this is right. They’re right. These beautiful boys she can’t help but love share the same heart, the same soul. They’re two halves, she knows, and they can only be whole together.

So, she thinks, maybe this is okay. Maybe she can be the support they need as they work their way through all the pain they’ve shared and take comfort in one another.

* * *

 


End file.
